Infoquake Part 15

The outside world did not come to a standstill while the fiefcorp beefed up its operations. In the midst of all the commotion, Pierre Loget released a bevy of upgrades on the Data Sea that sent his PulCorp rocketing to the top of Primo's. Billy Sterno and Lucas Sentinel quickly followed suit. For a couple of hours, the Patel Brothers sank as low as number four before they managed to pump a few more bio/logic programs into the system and reclaim the top spot.

Natch mysteriously shrugged the whole thing off and seemed content to sit in fourth place for the time being. He spent all his time reading the latest news about the Prime Committee and the Defense and Wellness Council. Jara would multi over to his apartment to find him meditating to the libertarian ravings of politician Khann Frejohr. The craggy face of High Executive Borda stared back at her from every window. When the story broke about a battalion of Council officers bivouacking in China, Natch was glued to a map of the Orient for hours.

Jara felt like a spectator in a game she didn't understand, played by t.i.tans on a board she could not see. At least the days were pa.s.sing quickly now, bringing the elusive end of her apprenticeship contract closer all the time.

On Monday morning, Jara awoke and slipped into her comfortable routine like an old shirt. She had barely fired up Doze-B-Gone 91c when she was a.s.saulted by a screaming headline from Sen Sivv Sor: THE PHOENIX PROJECT UNVEILED.

Is This the Long-Awaited New Surina Technology, or Just a Publicity Stunt?

John Ridglee's morning commentary quickly morphed to keep pace, sending his fawning profile of Pierre Loget to an out-of-the-way side column. Before long, the two drudges were engaged in a frenzied compet.i.tion to see who could quote more unnamed industry sources offering the wildest speculation about the Phoenix Project.

Within an hour, the entire world had shifted its focus to the upcoming 400th birthday celebration of Sheldon Surina. Curious onlookers from Earth to Luna to the farthest orbital colonies began tracking the comings and goings at the Surina compound, hoping to find clues to what Margaret had been up to for the past twenty years. Even those with little interest in bio/logics began streaming into Andra Pradesh to soak up the electric vibe in the air.

Horvil and Jara camped on opposite sofas in the engineer's apartment and watched Surina mania overtake the Data Sea. L-PRACG politicians stood up in open sessions to spout plat.i.tudes about the impact of another breakthrough Surina technology. One after another, the creeds released statements spelling out their positions on scientific innovation. The Islanders raised their obligatory protest about technology being thrust upon them against their will; the orbital colonies raised their obligatory protest about technology not reaching them quickly enough. The bio/logics markets careened up and down as investors decided the end was near or the best was yet to come. Even the revered Bodhisattva of Creed Objectivv emerged from seclusion to make some inscrutable p.r.o.nouncement about the state of Universal Truth in the wake of the Surinas' accomplishments.

"I don't get it," Jara said, throwing her hands up in confusion.

"You've been saying that a lot lately."

"Yes, but think about it for a minute, Horv. People have been talking about this stupid Phoenix Project for years now. Natch was just throwing around rumors about it a few days ago. Why is everybody so interested now? What's changed?"

Horvil bounced his arm off a stack of dirty laundry on the couch, trampoline-like. "It's called public relations. The Surinas are masters at it."

"You think all this hubbub comes from a few leaks to the drudges?"

"That's exactly what I think."

"But-"

"Come on, Jara. Don't you remember what happened a month ago? We've seen firsthand how this s.h.i.t happens."

The a.n.a.lyst twirled a few stray locks of curly hair, trying to mask her sudden embarra.s.sment. Horvil was right. They had personal expe rience with the capriciousness of the public imagination, and with the ways a few, choice power brokers could channel the energies of sixty billion people to their cause.

Horvil fixed her with a narrow-eyed stare. "What's wrong?" he said.

"If what Merri says about us licensing the Phoenix Project is true, then all this publicity is going to be really good for business."

"But?"

"But once Natch gets in the spotlight, who's to say someone's not going to hijack all this attention and turn it against him?"

Serr Vigal settled back into his chaise longue, mumbling something about how creaky his joints got in erratic gravity and how glad he was to be back from his latest visit to Patronell for memecorp funding. But Natch was distracted, not listening. "Tomorrow will be a momentous day," said the neural programmer, in an effort to catch his protege's attention.

"Tomorrow, I finally get to find out what this Phoenix Project is," said Natch. "It had better be worth all the trouble."

"Margaret still won't tell you?"

"No. I haven't heard a word from her in days. She's totally prived herself to the world. I can't even get her to sit down with me to iron out the details of this contract addendum." Natch shook his head glumly. "I just hope Len Borda gives her the chance to explain herself."

"Why, has he been making more threats?"

The entrepreneur swiveled around and gave his mentor a puzzled expression. "Threats? Haven't you been paying attention to the news? Borda's got several legions of Council troops heading for Andra Pradesh right now. That's not a threat. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y declaration of war."

A cloud of hoverbirds darkened the sky over Andra Pradesh late Tuesday afternoon. The troops disembarked in the fields west of the city instead of at the commercial hoverbird facility, and before long an army of white was marching towards the Surina compound. Several thousand Defense and Wellness Council officers moved with perfect synchronization through the streets of Andra Pradesh. A few curious vendors hung around to gawk, but most quickly packed up their wares and fled before the advancing army. The soldiers in white trudged on. There would be no looting on High Executive Borda's watch.

The Surina security forces stood their ground at the base of the mountain, looking scared, outgunned and hopelessly outnumbered. The chief of security positioned himself directly in front of the compound gates, trying to present a model of dignity to the green-andblue troops behind him. The Council had not made such a display of force in several years, at least not in a connectible city. One would have to look back to the Melbourne riots during the Economic Plunge to find an incident of actual large-scale combat.

The Defense and Wellness Council troops reached the base of the mountain and came to a halt. Their ranks were neatly bisected by the shadow of the Revelation Spire. Is there any force in the solar system capable of opposing them? the security chief asked himself.

The legion's commanding officer stepped out from her formation and strode calmly up to the chief of Surina security. The chief took stock of the woman's white robe and yellow star, the smock she wore over her shoulders as a mark of office, the gray boots which seemed impervious to the monsoon season's mud. Holstered at her right side was a two-handed dartgun. The Surina security chief wondered what bio/logic code sat on the tips of those darts, waiting for a fresh blood stream to infiltrate.

The chief's own darts were programmed to kill. With Margaret Surina's explicit authorization.

"Towards Perfection," announced the Defense and Wellness Council officer as she flashed a quick hologram of her public profile. Commander Tanis, it read, 242nd Brigade. Volunteering directory profiles was one of the few meaningless gestures Borda had made to public relations over the years. "I have been ordered by High Executive Len Borda to secure the Surina compound and the city of Andra Pradesh." Her tone of voice indicated that the occupation was a foregone conclusion.

The security chief stayed put. "Please convey our thanks to the high executive, but Her Eminence the Bodhisattva of Creed Surina needs no additional protection."

"Nevertheless," replied Tanis icily, "the Council has been charged by the Creeds Coalition to protect its interests here, and protect them we will."

This was a new development. The Surina official scratched his bald pate in puzzlement. "You're here to protect the Creeds Coalition's interests? From what? We are a creed."

Commander Tanis did not hesitate a heartbeat. "Large public gatherings bring a high risk of damage and destruction." Tanis held out her hand, palm up, and displayed a holographic message in the air. "Bodhisattvas of several major creeds have asked the high executive to protect the common cultural heritage of the creeds here at the Surina compound." The security chief examined the letter, confirmed that it stated precisely what the Council woman said, and noted dejectedly that it did indeed bear an authentic signature from the secretary of the Creeds Coalition. But he nearly erupted with laughter when he saw what "common cultural heritage" Borda presumed to be protecting.

A representation of Isaac Newton, on permanent loan from Creed Elan ... A bronzed effigy of Tobi Jae Witt, owned jointly by Creeds Bushido and Dao ... A sculpture of Albert Einstein that Creed Conscientious had lent to the Surinas while their new administrative facility was under construction.

The scientist statues in the Surina Center for Historic Appreciation.

This couldn't really be happening, could it? Len Borda couldn't be so brazen as to march into the Surina compound with such a minuscule figleaf of an excuse, could he? The security chief gazed past Tanis at the row upon row of motionless Council officers, and saw not a single smile or good-natured smirk. Politics, thought the security chief bitterly. How many times have I complained to Margaret that she isn't keeping up good relations with the other creeds? And what did the Council offer those other bodhisattvas to make them roll over so easily?

The security chief cast a sidelong glance at the inadequate forces under his command. Inexperienced boys and girls, really. The teeth of the green-and-blue soldier beside him were chattering uncontrollably.

"Stand down," said the commander of the Surina security forces with a sigh.

Tanis nodded and signaled her officers to enter the gates. The security chief watched gloomily as the white armada sailed through the gates and up the path towards the courtyard. None of them, he noticed, were headed for the Center for Historic Appreciation.

Natch thought he was still enveloped in the haze of multivoid when his field of vision turned white. Then he realized that his transmission to Andra Pradesh had gone through after all, and the white glare was the sun's reflection off a Council officer's steely dartgun.

The main courtyard was crawling with figures in white robes where Natch had expected blue and green. The few Surina employees in view were milling about aimlessly, trying to maintain the facade that they were still in charge. Yet the Council troops showed no sign of interfering. Their only agenda at this point, it appeared, was to stand with dart-rifles drawn and act menacing. If they intended to stop people from watching Margaret's presentation, they could do little from the courtyard; even the thickest Council thug had to know that standard crowd control procedures for an event like this would confine all multi projections to inside the auditorium.

Natch scooted quickly along the fence, hoping to make it unnoticed to the Center for Historic Appreciation. But he was not destined for such luck. Two officers immediately zeroed in and corralled him into a corner. As they scrutinized him, Natch waited for the officers to say something-didn't the Council troops in the dramas always say your identification, please or state your name and business?-but they kept eerily silent. He supposed they could gather all the information they needed by feeding his image through the jaws of their vast intelligence databases. Speech was superfluous.

"There you are," growled a voice. "Leave this one alone. He's with me."

Two arms brusquely made a path between the Council officers, into which stepped Margaret's mysterious Islander. His scruffy tunic and wild ponytail stood out like a scar in a courtyard full of crisp white uniforms. Natch didn't know whether to feel scared or comforted when the man put an arm across Natch's chest, like a parent claiming a wayward child.

The larger of the two Council officers eyed the Islander's copper collar with disdain. "So this is Margaret's Islander," he said, elbowing his cohort in the side. "Remember the one with the ponytail that came at us down in Manila? Looked just like this one."

His fellow officer let out a malicious chuckle. "I remember," she said. "Shot him full of darts. b.a.s.t.a.r.d just kept coming."

"Finally had to crack his skull, right?"

The Islander maintained his composure and did not take the bait. "I'll bet he had a stack of Council officers' corpses lying next to him when you finally took him down, too."

"Better watch your manners, unconnectible," sneered the Council man, clearly irritated at the Islander's demeanor. "You're not in the Pacific anymore. Without this, we could have you begging for mercy in two minutes." Then he fearlessly reached one hand up and flicked his finger against the collar.

Before the ping of the vibrating metal had faded away, the Islander was in motion.

Natch had never seen anyone move so fast. One second, the Islander was standing at rest; the next, he had zipped around and placed the offending officer in a chokehold. The second guard reached for her dartgun in a panic, but it was too late. The Islander had already lifted her comrade's weapon from its sheath and aimed it squarely at her forehead. "Ah," he hissed savagely, "but which one of you is going to take it away from me?"

Within seconds, officers all over the courtyard were scrambling towards them with weapons drawn. Natch had never actually faced the barrel of a Defense and Wellness Council dartgun before; now he found himself facing at least thirty of them. The fact that he was present only as a multi projection was slight comfort. It became less comforting still when Natch realized that several of the dartguns pointed at him were actually multi disruptors.

The Islander shook off the tension with a dismissive snort. He released the officer from the crook of his arm and shoved him roughly towards his companions, tossing the dartgun on the ground as an afterthought. Then he flipped his ponytail over one shoulder and parted another path in the crowd as if nothing had happened. "Well?" he called to Natch. "Are you coming or not?" The entrepreneur forced his knocking knees to follow. Scores of Council eyeb.a.l.l.s watched in silence as the two walked briskly through the courtyard and into the Center for Historic Appreciation. Natch let out a loud breath of relief as soon as the doors closed behind them.

The atrium was empty of visitors, except for two Council guards standing idly against the wall discussing baseball. Neither gave Natch or the Islander so much as a glance as they threaded their way between the scientist statues and headed down one of the corridors.

"b.l.o.o.d.y tracking devices," muttered the Islander. "Do they think we actually want to wear these f.u.c.king things?" He reached up with one hand and tugged at the collar as if about to fling it boomerangstyle down the hallway. Natch noticed for the first time that the collar was not actually suspended in air, but balanced on the man's neck over a fine latticework of metallic thread. The contraption looked hideously uncomfortable.

"Did you say that thing is a tracking device?" asked Natch, struggling to keep up with the Islander's giant strides.

"Of course it's a tracking device. Why else would they make them so f.u.c.king conspicuous? You can see an Islander with a collar from a kilometer away."

Natch was usually not interested in cross-border politics. But he had to keep this strange man talking, if only so he might figure out his relation to Margaret and the Phoenix Project. "But you need those outside the Islands," he said. "How else you going to survive out here without OCHREs?"

Halfway up a flight of stairs, the Islander stopped dead in his tracks. "You've got a lot to learn about your governments, boy." He reached into his pocket with a scowl and dug out a small disc the size of an ancient coin. "See this little device? You can pin it to your collar, or wear it on a string around your neck. Made from spare parts, and you can see multi projections with it, interact with bio/logic code. Explain that to me."

Natch eyed the circle with embarra.s.sment. "So why aren't you wearing that thing instead?"

Margaret's Islander gazed at Natch with an unspoken accusation of gullibility hovering just behind his eyes. "Because wearing these collars is the law if you're an Islander," he sneered. "And if you don't obey the law, you get visits from the Defense and Wellness Council and the Prime Committee and f.u.c.k knows who else." Then he slipped the disc back into his tunic and kept climbing the stairs.

Natch trotted alongside the big man as they crossed a covered walkway over the courtyard and into the Surina Enterprise Facility. A hoverbird bearing the Council insignia zoomed across the skyline directly in front of them. "Where are we going?" said Natch. "That message I got this morning ... Are you taking me to Margaret?"

"No. Margaret's locked herself in the residence, preparing for the speech. You'll see her afterwards-if there's anything left to see."

"So what's this 'performance' you need me to do? Or was that it down there in the courtyard?"

The Islander shook his head. He had led them to the end of a wide corridor and an imposing set of double doors. "The performance is in here," he said grimly. "Just be yourself. Stick by me and make sure everyone sees it. Speak if you have to, but don't say anything memorable." The doors slid open of their own accord, but not before the man thrust one hand forward and slammed it against the metal with a bang. "And one more thing you'll need to know: my name is Quell."

Beyond the doors was a large bowl-shaped meeting room. A lavish bouquet stood in the center of the room, underneath a revolving banner that flashed HAPPY 400TH BIRTHDAY, SHELDON SURINA over and over in ten-second intervals. About four or five dozen guests congregated in small cl.u.s.ters around the room, all of whom had turned their attention to the sudden and noisy arrival of Natch and Quell.

It's the whole biollogics industry, Natch thought with a quickly stifled gasp.

If it wasn't quite the entire industry, the guest list for this little reception certainly encompa.s.sed its top tier. Natch saw hated rivals and fierce compet.i.tors in every corner. Jara's old boss Lucas Sentinel was camped near the bouquet with a group of well-known channelers and capitalmen. A pasty man with a mop of black hair, Sentinel did not tower over his companions so much as sway awkwardly in their midst like a tree. The drudges Sen Sivv Sor and John Ridglee were holding court on opposite sides of the room. Libertarian rabblerouser Khann Frejohr sipped chaff alongside the shrewish programmer Bolliwar Tuban. Natch felt a hand clap him on his shoulder, and turned around to face Billy Sterno. "Nice entrance, pal!" chirped the fiefcorper before scuttling off, his Chinese eyes glinting with mischief.

I need a licensee who can generate enough ripples on the Data Sea to make the Council stay its hand until I unveil the technology, Margaret had said.

I guess that's what we're doing, thought Natch. Generating ripples.

Natch and Quell began a slow stroll around the periphery of the room. The fiefcorp master put on a haughty look and did his best to forestall any conversation. For the most part, it worked. The members of the bio/logics elite seemed content to stay in their balkanized cl.u.s.ters and throw scandalized looks at the fiefcorp master and the Islander from afar. After ten minutes of this, however, Natch started to get restless. Everyone in the room had noticed them already, and the crowd would soon be gathering in the auditorium to await Margaret's speech.

"Okay, have we made enough of a show?" he muttered in a low voice, unsure whether an Islander could respond to a ConfidentialWhisper.

"Not yet," replied Quell calmly. "I want to catch one of the stragglers."

Natch frowned. "Stragglers?" Then he heard a violent cough behind him, and turned to see the bulldog face of Frederic Patel.

Natch did not bother with formal greetings, because he knew he would receive none from Frederic. The short, barrel-chested programmer had not inherited the slick mannerisms and sharp fashion sense that made his older brother Petrucio so popular among the drudges. If they had not inherited the same olive complexion and lithe moustache, one would be hard-pressed to identify the two Patels as brothers. But even during the worst days of their vitriolic compet.i.tion, Natch had to admit that Frederic was one of the few engineers in the business whose skills stood up to Horvil's.

"Well, if it isn't the thief," snarled Patel.

The fiefcorp master laughed scornfully. "Watch who you're calling a thief. Looks like you've stolen your number one slot back, for a little while at least."

"Primo's." Frederic gave a dismissive flip of the hand, leaving Natch to wonder what else he had stolen from the Patels recently. "A little while. What's that mean?"

"That means, sometimes history repeats itself."

Frederic made a whistling sound with his nose that, after a moment, Natch realized was laughter. He swept his gaze to the Islander, who stared back with an impenetrable glare. Natch suddenly remembered Quell's instructions to say as little as possible, but the big man no longer seemed to care. "You heard your boss's speech yet?" Patel said, addressing Quell.

"No," replied the Islander.

"We're not gonna be bored to death, are we?"

"The world might be a better place if you were," Quell said, deadpan.

Again the whistling sound. "So that's the game you two are playing, eh?" Patel rasped. "Well, fine with me. But now it's our move."

The level of conversation in the room had dipped noticeably since Frederic's approach. Lucas Sentinel had wandered close and kept taking discreet peeks at the confrontation like a nervous hyena. John Ridglee was not even trying to disguise his blatant attempts to read lips.

Natch was trying to decipher Frederic's comments and formulate a response when a loud neutral tone sounded throughout the room. The marquee displaying birthday wishes to the dead Sheldon Surina was now announcing the imminent arrival of his descendant Margaret onstage. Within seconds, industry mavens were cutting their multi connections to the party and preparing to reconnect inside the nearby auditorium.

Frederic Patel vanished without so much as a glance back in their direction. Natch breathed a sigh of relief, following Quell out the same doors they had entered through. The show was about to begin.

"I'm telling you, this can't go on forever. One of these days, the Data Sea is just going to collapse."

"They've been saying that for a century."

"But come on, look at how much more bandwidth we're using these days. Multi, the Jamm, the Sigh. Even quantum computing has its limits."

"One point three billion multi projections at Marcus Surina's funeral, and not a single glitch. That's all I have to say."

"Yeah, but-"